


Februrary Lily

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: X Company (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Flowers, Fluff, Implied Aurora/Alfred, M/M, valentines fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6008244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tom accidentally starts a collection within a war and the boys get some well deserved Valentines fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Februrary Lily

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in season one but the only real mention of it would be Neil's niece, Mags, in episode 4 (love that episode soooo much!).   
> These boys need more love!  
> Happy Valentines day! :)

Tom picks it up as an afterthought as they’re traipsing through the French country side. It’s a delicate little blossom, fresh white petals and lush green leaves. It’s hidden in a patch of thick, tall grass and Tom nearly stomps right over it before the flash of white catches his eye.

The others continue on ahead, Harry and Neil chatting away, Aurora watching with a fond smile, and Alfred watching Aurora.

He isn’t sure what makes him do it- something about the tiny flower resonates with him- but he picks it half way up the stem. He wraps it up in his handkerchief carefully and stores it in his pocket for later.

He nearly forgets it’s there, the rush to make their contact and find a safe place to stay while they wait for further notice from home pushes it from his mind. It’s not until late that night when he’s taking first watch in their little apartment that he recalls the small flower.

He’s never tried to press a flower before but he recalls how his mother used to take the flowers he would bring her on weekends when he went exploring in the nearby park as a child, and weigh them down with a pan or book, trapped between two pieces of paper.

Tom tries this now; rummages around until he can find a sheet of clean paper, and folds it in half, pressing the delicate petals and drying stem into it. There’s a bookshelf against the far wall in what passes for a living room, a few water stained paper backs and a hard cover with a cracked spine. He places the paper with the flower between the pages of the hard cover- a book of French poetry he notes- and then sets the book back on the shelf.

They have to leave three days later. Tom pauses on his way out the door to grab the book off the shelf, pressed flower still secure inside.

“Taken up poetry, have we?” Neil glances at the book in Tom’s hands. They’re the last to exit the apartment, to close it up for the next group that may need it.

“I’m going to serenade you with the best France has to offer.” Tom winks and slides the book into his pack.

Neil laughs and prods him along with a hand set low on his back. The heat from his palm is searing through Tom’s thin shirt.

“Looking forwards to it mate.”

::

The second flower he purchases from a young pretty girl with blonde curls and brown eyes. She sits on the corner by the Mayors home in Rouen, a town that runs along the river Seine, a little cart before her full of bundles of fresh flowers. People stop as they pass by, purchasing bundles of daisies and daffodils, a few fresh roses.

He strolls up to her, arm in arm with Aurora and offers a pleasant smile.

“Beautiful flowers,” he says and plucks up a lily he hasn’t seen growing wild. It has a light dusting of pink across its petals. “Do you grow them yourself?”

“My aunt grows them on her farm,” the girl replies. She smiles as though an afterthought.

“My uncle had a farm,” Tom replies dutifully. “But he died of pneumonia last winter.”

The girl accepts the money he hands to her and hands back a small slip of paper with his change. The slip of paper will hold the Mayors schedule for the week.

“ _Merci_ ,” he holds the flower out for Aurora who takes it with a charmed smile. “Beautiful flower for a beautiful woman.”

The flower sits forgotten on the table until the next day when Tom gives in and rescues it, pressing the wilted petals between two sheets of paper. Neil catches him in the act this time, sitting next to him at the table.

“Mags used to do that,” he comments quietly.

Tom doesn’t pause as he slides the flower between the pages of his poetry book. It’s a near thing though, getting Neil to talk about his past is like pulling teeth, but he soaks up each bit of information, holds it close and greedily refuses to share it.

“Press flowers?”

“Yeah,” Neil brushes a hand over Tom’s where it’s pressing down on the cover of the book. “She loved lilies too.”

It hadn’t been his intention to collect lilies, not that he would call his two flowers a collection, but there’s just something so innocent and pure about the flower that he needs amidst all of the fighting and bloodshed.

::

He’s hiding in a ditch with Harry when he stumbles across the third flower.

Not far away a group of angry villagers are fighting back against a small Nazi outpost. The sound of gunfire retorts through the air, the smell of ozone sharp on the wind as explosives and gunpowder are used.

Tom’s itching to scramble up the embankment and dive into the fray. His heart is hammering in his chest like a wild thing desperate to escape. Fear and helplessness battle it out, Tom’s mind as the battlefield as they tear each other to shreds. There’s no way the villagers can hold out against the Germans. They lack the man power, the weapons, the training.

He’s unarmed; his gun is a mile back with the body of their contact in the town. Harry is ashen where he lays a few feet away, side bloody where a bullet nicked him as they made a run for it. It’s not deep, their only saving grace at this point, because while Harry is bleeding Tom’s fairly certain he’s not in any danger of bleeding out. Neither of them knows where the others have ended up, though he can bet that Neil and Aurora probably headed straight for the action.

So currently they’re unarmed, alone and they weren’t expecting the riot that broke out shortly after arriving in town.

“We should head towards the people,” Harry says, eyes pressed tightly closed against the pain.

Tom crouches low and hurries over to his side, checking the hasty field dressing he’d managed to slap on. The bleeding has slowed a lot; unfortunately trying to move Harry is just going to make it start up again.

“We should stay put.”

“Until the Germans stumble across us?”

“It’s better than walking right up to them,” Tom argues.

Harry huffs but concedes the point. Tom settles down next to him. His hands are stained red from Harry’s blood; he tries ineffectually to wipe them off on his pants and the rough dirt underneath him.

“Where do you think the others ended up?” he asks, mostly to break the silence. Harry glances over at him, and then blinks wide, young eyes up at the blue sky. It’s a beautiful day out.

“Safe house.” Harry decides. “That’s where Aurora would go.”

“If they’re not in the middle of all this by now.” Tom points out but his attention is elsewhere.

Harry laughs, and then winces at the pain it causes.

“Oh they’re probably in the middle of it,” he pauses when he notices Tom sliding further down into the ditch. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Tom calls over his shoulder.

There’s a small patch of flowers, undisturbed by their winding, shambling trek through the ditch. Some purple flower he doesn’t recognize and a few small white lilies. He feels a little foolish as he does it, picking one of the smaller ones with the stem. But isn’t it an odd coincidence finding them here, in the middle of all of this chaos?

His hand dwarfs the petals. He could say they’re soft to the touch. It makes him think of Neil’s touch brushing against the back of his hand that day at the table. It feels like a stroke of luck, something they could use.

“You’re collecting flowers now?” Harry arches an eyebrow as Tom shows him.

“No,” he says before remembering the other two he keeps hidden in the book of French poetry. “Maybe.”

“It’s nice.” Harry says, with something like understanding in his gaze. They all need some way to escape this war.

“Think we can make it to the safe house?” Tom risks peeking above the edge of the ditch but the fighting hasn’t made its way towards them, yet.

“Sure, it’s barely a scratch.”

Tom hefts Harry to his feet with a laugh, taking as much of his weight as he can.

The lily rests safely in his pocket until he can add it to the others later.

::

“Everyone settled?” Aurora asks as Neil and Tom traipse back into the old farm house. It’s the fourth one in two months; Tom is beginning to think they all look the same.

“Made contact and they’re on their way to England.” Neil confirms. He settles into the old worn couch and Tom continues to the kitchen to grab them each a glass of water and a baguette.

He comes back to Neil briefing Aurora on the double agent that is currently on their way out of France. Tom hands over one of the glasses and settles next to him. He downs half the glass; his throat parched, and then tears a chunk off the baguette. Neil’s foot bumps his own, presses against his and remains there. Tom tears off another chunk of bread and hands it over.

“England will love this,” Aurora’s gaze flickers down and then back up, a smile tugging at her lips. “They always hate when we get first crack.”

“Hey,” Neil protests around a mouthful of bread. “Sitting right here.”

Aurora shares a grin with Tom.

“There’s a vegetable garden in the back,” she pushes to her feet. “Alfred found it this morning. And since Neil’s cooking tonight,”

“Since when?” Neil demands and Tom laughs, grabbing their empty cups and climbing to his feet as well.

“Since you bet Alfred he couldn’t place every note on that record yesterday.”

“I clearly wasn’t in my right mind.” Neil mutters as Tom places the cups in the sink to wash later. He meets Neil at the back door. “You don’t have to help mate.”

“It’ll be faster if I do,” he pushes outside. It’s getting chilly, the sun sinking beneath the horizon. “And I’m starving.”

“I knew there was an ulterior motive.” Neil quips.

They’re mostly silent as they search through the over grown garden, trading a comment every once in a while. Tom’s soaking up the companionship when he pulls aside a tangle of weeds and finds a little flower, half strangled by the vine wrapped around it.

“What are you doing here?” He murmurs to himself. Neil hears him regardless and comes over, curious.

“You have a knack for finding these things, don’t you?” He laughs looking down at the lily. There are holes in its petals and leaves, like something has been making it its dinner but it’s still mostly intact.

“It’s a gift.” Tom winks and picks the flower.

He stands from where he was crouched and holds it out to Neil. One of Neil’s rough hands curls around his so they’re both standing in the middle of the over grown vegetable patch holding the flower. Tom knows he should be feeling silly, under normal circumstances he would, but this is too important to be normal.

“How about you press it for me,” Neil says.

It’s too delicate to carry by itself, but if he were to press it, keep it safe between two sheets of paper, Neil could carry it with him is what he’s not saying. It sends a thrill through him. He thinks how if they weren’t here, out in the open, he’d press close, feel Neil’s strong chest and broad shoulders and soft lips.

Neil’s gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips. Tom licks his lips, its intentional, to watch how his eyes darken further.

“I’m on first watch tonight,” Neil squeezes his hand gently and then lets go, clears his throat. “I could wake you up when I get in.”

“I’ll probably be wide awake then,” Tom admits, the ‘waiting for you’ goes unsaid but Neil hears it nonetheless.

Neil smirks and ducks his head, turning back to gather up the small pile of vegetables he’s managed to amass. Tom grabs up the few he could find in one hand, the other wrapped protectively around the small, frail flower.

::

February blooms cold and damp across France. He desperately misses winters in Canada and the States and the three foot snow banks, and big solid snowflakes that would fall from overcast skies. Late at night when the wind is howling outside of wherever they’re staying, he misses piles of blankets and mugs of hot chocolate or coffee and thick woolen socks.

Neil makes up for it though, when he climbs into bed with Tom, a living furnace that Tom can curl up against or have him wrap him up in thick, strong arms. Tom loves to tangle their feet together, warm his frozen toes. Neil doesn’t complain at the cool touch, just pulls him closer like he can chase the cold from him.

They get the odd frozen rain or wet snow in France, but the majority of the time it’s damp and wet and grey. Harry catches a cold that lasts two weeks and gets pretty bad before he manages to pass it to Aurora for a short while.

Thankfully there isn’t much for them to do right now, spread some propaganda and try to put together a resistance out of the mish mash of people in the town that are fed up with the war. As it is, it feels like a lot with only three healthy people.

On a rainy February weekday, Harry and Aurora are both laid up in bed, one with vertigo and the other with a fever that Alfred has taken to obsessively checking every half hour. Neil is out meeting with the woman they’re helping form the resistance and Tom has taken over the kitchen table of the rundown flat they’re squatting in.

Alfred has been in and out of Aurora and Harry’s rooms most of the afternoon but Tom’s ignored him in favor of putting together some fresh posters with the aim of calling upon the town’s patriotism and love for their neighbors. It’s not going well. Around two Alfred makes some vague suggestion of getting more soup.

Tom doesn’t realize that he’s actually left until he looks up awhile later and Alfred _is not in the flat_.

Aurora is going to kill him.

He scrawls out a note that he’ll be right back, tucks his gun safely underneath his jacket and is out the door in a flash. Halfway down the stairs he runs right into Alfred, arms full of a heavy brown paper bag and nearly gets the contents spilled on him in return.

“Where did you go?” His voice comes out a little shrill. They’ve had enough near misses with Alfred that none of them like letting him out of their sight. Unofficially they call it Alfred minding and it’s a lot like babysitting sometimes.

“There’s a small restaurant just around the corner, we passed by it yesterday.” Alfred hefts the bag a little higher. “They had a sign for _soupe chaude_.”

Tom runs a hand over his face.

Alfred is either oblivious to his panic or just doesn’t care (it’s probably the former) and continues up the stairs. Once inside Tom tosses away the note and settles back in at the table. The rich, warm smell of fresh chicken soup fills the air and his stomach lets out a rumble. Alfred has that faraway look he gets sometimes as he holds the soup close to his face and just breathes. Aurora is normally the one to deal with him when he gets this look but it’s just him and Tom here and Tom is nothing if not too curious for his own good.

“What do you smell?”

“It’s an image,” Alfred replies, distracted. “A neighbors’ kind smile. The fireplace of the house we stayed in two months ago. And the feeling of a hand on my shoulder, comforting and firm. “

Tom doesn’t quite understand but he has a feeling he has similar connections.

“Better get them their soup,” he clears his throat. “Want me to help?”

Alfred seems to snap back to the present and ducks his head.

“No, it’s fine. I got enough for all of us, if you’re hungry.”

Tom’s starving but that’s what he gets for getting wrapped up in his work all day.

“And,” Alfred continues hesitantly. “I found this on my way back. It looks like someone dropped it in the road.”

He places a lily on the table atop Tom’s half-finished designs. It’s crumpled, a little dirty and missing the stem like it might have fallen from a bouquet but it’s still beautiful.

“You collect them, right?” Alfred’s watching him, uncertain. Tom knows how he feels, out of all of them he and Alfred have probably spent the least amount of time together, but they’re still a team, still friends. Sometimes he forgets that.

“I do,” he picks it up carefully. “Thank you.”

Alfred nods and collects the two bowls of soup, heading to Harry’s room first. A moment later he reemerges and goes into Aurora’s room and doesn’t come back out for quite some time after.

::

February fourteenth is a surprisingly warm day with a clear blue sky overhead. Harry and Aurora are both healthy again; for the best really, since they’d been going stir crazy and driving the rest of them insane in the process. There isn’t much to do at the moment; the pair has taken to spreading Tom’s finished posters in an effort to avoid settling into the militaries favorite motto, hurry up and wait. Alfred tags along pulled in Aurora’s wake like a man trapped in a strong ocean current, unable to do anything but swim with it and hope for the best. Neil, somehow, manages to catch the cold that’s been going around and spends the day tucked under two blankets, miserable.

After dinner Tom says goodnight to the others and crawls into bed with Neil. It’s boiling under the covers but Neil just burrows against Tom’s chest and sighs like this is all he really needs.

“If you get me sick I’ll never forgive you,” Tom warns, though there’s no real threat there.

Neil huffs out a nasally laugh.

“I’m fine mate, feeling better already.”

“Think you can sit up for a minute then?” Tom presses a quick kiss to his forehead which is much cooler than it had been earlier. He gets a grunt in reply that he chooses to take as a yes, and sits up himself to grab the little package he’d left next to the bed.

Neil peers at the newspaper wrapped package, curious. Tom hands it to him and he turns it over in his hands a few times as though he can guess what it is inside by touch alone.

“It’s Valentine’s day,” Tom begins, feeling his cheeks heat and wondering if perhaps this is a silly idea. “And if I could I would spoil you, get you dinner, and chocolates, and a bouquet of roses.”

Neil un-wraps the paper and stares down at the five pressed lilies. Tom had managed to find some fancier paper a few towns ago, traded an old watch for it, and moved the flowers into the nicer paper.

“You got me a bouquet.” Neil says, a small, pleased smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Tom relaxes a little at the smile.

“I did.” He confirms. “It should last longer than the normal ones too.”

Neil laughs a warm, joyful, sound that tugs at something in Tom’s chest.

“I love it.” He reaches over, slides his hand around the back of Tom’s neck, into the short hairs there, and tugs him into a soft kiss. Tom opens up under the insistent press of his lips with a soft groan and the warm feeling in his chest blooms, spreading through him like wildfire.

“You’re definitely going to get sick now, love.” Neil laughs when they manage to part for air.

Tom can’t quite find it in himself to care.

“For you, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”


End file.
